Choosing Her Own Path
by Lahiwe
Summary: Pocahontas never thought she'd be able to listen like her mother had. The gift of understanding was just that, and it hadn't been given to her. But when she meets a man from across the sea, she learns that the gift is more a part of her than she knows.
1. Her Mother's Spirit

**Author's Note: This is not a true novelization of the movie; rather, it's an in-depth look at Pocahontas' thoughts as she goes on her journey. Throughout this story, I've changed dialogue, added scenes, and slightly changed situations to make it somewhat more historically accurate, flesh out her and John Smith's relationship, and make her a more rounded, flowing character. I promise you, you'll never be left wondering why she does what she does. Some sections have more dialogue and others have less, depending on the content**. **Anyway, I really hope you enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: All characters belong to Disney.**

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><p>They said I had my mother's spirit.<p>

I knew that my mother had once been a wise woman, gifted with insights into the spirits of the Earth. But how was I like her? Where she had always been certain, I was often fraught with indecision. Her feet had always known their path, and I…well, I just went wherever the wind took me. She had been my father's favorite wife because her strong will and single-minded nature were tempered by a gentle and caring disposition. But although I knew I was my father's favorite child, I wondered sometimes how he could stand my constant changes of mood, my temper that was likely to flare in a second, my curiosity that often ended up getting me into trouble, my reclusive nature. I was so disconnected from the people, nothing like my mother, whom everyone had loved and who had loved everyone.

But most of all, I knew I was not like my mother because she could hear the spirits. You can't choose to be a wise man or woman; it is something that is born inside you. It may not be apparent from infancy, but soon you'll know when _Gitche Manitou-_the Great Spirit-has chosen you because you'll be able to speak the language of the wind, the trees, the river, the fire, the clouds. My mother was able to teach me how to speak to her spirit guide, Grandmother Willow. But the rest cannot be taught. It seemed that I was not born with the ability to listen.

When my mother died, I felt lost. The world that I loved turned into an even more confusing place than it had been before. I began to lose my way in the forest. I could not canoe down the Quyocahannock anymore, because I always lost control, the rapids wrenching me from side to side. I could no longer jump, climb, or run with the wind at my back like the carefree girl I had once been.

After many moons, I began to feel breezes around me. Soft breezes that could easily have been part of a spring morning, a summer afternoon, an autumn evening, a winter night. But then I noticed the leaves that would come with them. They had a slight shimmer, as if lightning bugs illuminated them. And a song…a melody always came with them, low enough to make me wonder if I had truly heard it, but strong enough to make me shiver. It sounded so familiar, but where I had heard it always eluded me. Airy, woody, haunting. It seemed like the very voice of a chorus of wind, trees, and mountains. I didn't know where the breeze and its song had come from, but with it came a sense of direction and purpose I hadn't had since my mother died.

My newfound sense of security that had come with the wind was shattered when my father told me Kocoum wanted to marry me. I had always known my nature would bring sadness to my father, because I could not see myself married to him. True, we had grown up together and I admired his bravery and his loyalty to the traditions of the ancestors, but was that enough? His feet were always planted so firmly on the ground, and he would never let anyone, least of all his wife, budge him. Couldn't I have something like what my mother and father had? A complementary soul? Had my father forgotten that in his quest to find me a husband who would build me a house with sturdy walls? My father was constantly reminding me that the river chooses the smoothest course as he cuts his path. Always downhill, with smooth earth and no obstacles. But what kind of life was that? No challenges, no adventure, forever stuck in the same place till your course runs out. How could my father ask me to do that?

And then there was that dream. The dream that had puzzled me for weeks. An arrow that spun around and around and around. Didn't my sleeping mind know that arrows don't spin, they fly? I brought it to Grandmother Willow, but even she did not know what it meant, or did not want to reveal it to me. She did, however, know that it was pointing me down my path.

"There are spirits all around you, child. They live in the earth. The water. The stars. If you listen, they will guide you."

Didn't she know already? How could I listen? I wanted to tell her that I had not been born with the gift of wisdom like my mother had. As soon as that thought crossed my mind, though, I heard the strange chorus begin to strike up a melody once more. The voices were the same, but the song was not. It was more mystical, more insistent. I knew that somehow, the spirits were trying to talk to me, but my ears were closed. Didn't they know that I could not understand their language? As if she could hear me, Grandmother added some soft words that, in our language, mean "Listen with your heart, now you understand."

And I did.

All at once a tidal wave of images rushed over me. Things that I had never seen before rushed through my mind in quick succession, strange animals and people with distorted faces. I thought I was supposed to be hearing something, but then I understood that this was the language. I focused hard, trying to clear my mind until two images flashed before my eyes with sudden clarity: the strange arrow, and drifting clouds. My eyes flew open, and I climbed the tree to see if the message could possibly be true. And there, floating towards us from the middle of the sea, I saw it.

_Strange clouds. _

Was this my path? Towards this huge unknown? None of this made any sense, but when I climbed down Grandmother Willow's trunk and began to run towards the shore, I felt like I was flying.


	2. A NeverEnding Circle

**A/N: This was a very challenging chapter for me: writing the Colors of the Wind sequence in a believable way. If you think there's anything I can improve on, please leave a comment!**

I really can't tell you why I began to follow him, but I did.

Perhaps it was because I had never seen anyone like him before. All of my people, even the other Algonquian and Iroquois tribes miles down the coast, had the same smooth bronze skin, straight black hair, and piercing dark eyes. But this man was different. His skin was drained of all color, bleached like a bone that has been sitting in the sun. His hair was a fluffy pale yellow, as soft-looking as a duckling's down. His eyes were piercing, too, but rather than a dark brown or black, they were the same dark blue as the ocean he had come from. His appearance was quite startling. Maybe he really had come from out of the sea, and the water had drained all of the color from him, except that blue.

Even though he frightened me somewhat, my heart told me to follow him. I couldn't believe that I had thought before that listening to the spirits was done with your _ears_. I kept myself hidden so I could observe him better, and as he went further and further inland, I found myself liking him more and more. He seemed to have a zeal for life and discovery that I hadn't seen in any of the young men of my tribe. His eyes sparkled with each newfound trail, and he laughed at any point where it seemed like he was in immediate danger. _Just like you, _a voice whispered. I wondered how it would feel to go diving off of the cliffs with someone who didn't think I was suicidal or insane.

As soon as I finally caught up with him, though, I realized I'd made a mistake. He jumped out from behind a waterfall, his mouth set in a fierce snarl, what I assumed to be a weapon pointed right at me. I hadn't been that scared in my entire life. But as I prayed to the Great Spirit to _please _deliver me, his expression changed. He stared at me as though he was afraid I would disappear. Maybe I would have—it was all a sort of dream, with dark grey clouds covering the entire sky, blue shadows laid over the cove, and the gentle mist of the waterfall rising around us. Maybe I had entered a place of the spirits, where no sunlight could enter. The only light came from his yellow hair, a halo that glowed around his head. Maybe _he _was that spirit, who had summoned me here and was pulling me closer with his ocean blue eyes. An unearthly chill ran through my body, down to my fingertips. But I wasn't foolish—man or spirit, he had just been about to kill me! And he kept getting closer and closer. Before I went any further into waters too deep for my comprehension, I ran.

The man from the sea said something in a strange tongue. I panicked even more. "I don't understand you," I said in Powhaton. I even tried to make the hand sign for it. My father had told me that all of our people—from the Hurons far to the north, to the Seminole far to the south—could communicate in this language, maybe even more that we did not know about. How could this man not understand it?

But the song was back. It swelled up around me, and I could even feel it rushing through my blood. Its drumbeat became the pounding of my heart, and the same shimmering leaves swirled as I took his hand. _Is this what you want? _I felt, rather than thought. In answer, a shower of purple, pink, gold, and blue rained over us, more beautiful than anything I had ever seen. And, just as I could now understand the language of the world, I understood the words he spoke to me. He wanted to know my name.

"Pocahontas."

John Smith. His name was so strange, so short, with sounds that stayed in your mouth and teeth, nothing deep or wide. But I liked it as much then as I do now. My mind could barely fit itself around this larger-than-life man, who had been so many places, places I had never heard of. He had fought in wars, served princesses, explored distant lands, and now he had come here on a ship (as I learned the clouds and the vessel attached to them were called). His hands and face became animated as he talked, and displayed a wide range of emotions and expressions. His nostrils would flare when he spoke of battles, his eyes floated up to the sky when he mentioned exploring as if he were following that northward star even now. Graceful hands painted me pictures in the air of London, with its bridges and streets and buildings as tall as trees.

Even so, he seemed anxious to learn about my land—our language, landforms, everything. I was probably one of the smarter girls in the village, but I had never before felt so knowledgeable. I taught him a simple sign that, in our language, meant _wingapo_, and meant _hello _in his.

I see it even now, our first meeting. It thrilled me to hear everything about this world I never knew existed, until he said that one word. _Savages_.

I recoiled at the sound of it. It was a word my people did not use even toward our worst enemies, because even enemies are human and have their own way of life. But savages? Ignorant people who are only worthy of being walked on beneath your _mockasins_? Who could ever deserve such a name? Only a wicked person would use it!

He tried to assure me that he had not meant me, but I could see it in the condescending way he had spoken to me. As if I were only a foolish, ignorant _savage _to whom he could brag about his superior way of life. As always, my mood changed quickly, and soon I was furious with him. Why had I even come here? Let him go back, let him find his own way through our land. If I was lucky, maybe a wild animal would teach him a lesson in humility.

But I could still see the vibrant young man who I had followed, his arms spread wide to let the whole world in. Perhaps there was something in him that was willing to be taught. I leaped down in front of him, staring straight into his eyes. I felt pulled into them, and my mind wandered in the blue depths. Once again, I heard the song. But now I recognized where it had come from.

When I was little, my mother would tell me the story of how the Great Spirit formed the world. But, as I had never been able to sit still long enough to listen till the end, she began to sing the story. Sometimes she would make the images with her hands, other times she would illustrate by taking me outside and letting me touch each object as it was formed. I knew the story by heart because of that song, but now different words formed in my head. They were strange words, but somehow, I understood them. Would he? I turned around to see if he was following me, and led him into my world.

I showed him my meaning in the same way my mother had—we touched every creation. Could he see the error of his ways? Could he see the lives that had before been invisible to him that were so important to us? I smiled at his astonished grin as he picked up a tiny bear cub, whose mother he had been about to shoot only moments earlier. A wolf howled far away as we looked up at the stars, constellations that I had known all my life now seeming even brighter. As we stood near a waterfall, I felt myself being blown away, and our hands grasped one another as we swirled around and around, diving down the falls. He was trying hard to keep up with me, but instead of the uncertainty I had seen earlier on his face, there was now only pure joy. Running, and swimming, and then drying off in the sun, time passed so fast it seemed like it was all in my mind, and he laid his head down on my hair as I whispered,

_And we are all connected to each other…in a circle, in a hoop that never ends…_

The sky was dark pink and red, like sunset, as we watched two eagles fly to the top of a sycamore tree. The wind had picked up once more, and I brought him to the cliff I dived from. Arms open, I lifted my face towards the sky. He was solemn, and when the glittering leaves blew past him, he reached out his fingers to feel them fly.

And then we were back where we began, kneeling together on the ground. It seemed like everything and nothing had happened, and I could hear my voice singing low in my throat, almost as though it belonged to someone else.

_You can own the earth and still,_

_All you'll own is earth until…_

_You can paint—_

_With all the colors_

_Of the_

_Wind…_

And as I let the earth run through my fingers into his hands, I knew that he had understood, too.


	3. All that Glitters

Out of all of them, he said, I was the most beautiful.

We rolled and danced and laughed and ran and swam, day after day, but between all this, we found time to tell each other the things that we hadn't realized we were keeping secret.

"Pocahontas, I've seen so many people. So many women—Turkish, Algerian, French, Russian, even Chinese. They all looked attractive in their own way, I suppose. But none of them, not a single one, comes close to you. You're like one of the Egyptian queens of old, Nefertiti. At least, from what I've heard of her. They say she was wise and beautiful…just like you."

Was he the most handsome man I had ever seen? He certainly was not what I had been brought up to see as handsome. His skin was only slightly tanned, and weathered from his years in the sun and at sea. Shallow lines sometimes creased his forehead; his lips were thin and pale. But his eyes reflected everything and drew everything in at the same time. His broad, sharp shoulders and angular jaw seemed to me like an arrow, pointing straight and true. _Spinning arrow…_

"Are you inspecting me?" Playful, then doubtful. "Have I found wanting?"

"None of the men in my village are like you. You stand like an eagle about to take flight. But…I don't know if that is enough. You must be a brave warrior."

"Oh, I am." Solemn, but his mouth twitched at the corners, and I continued.

"I'll have to take your word, since you have no tokens to prove it. Hmmm…you must have a tattoo that proclaims the noble tribe of your birth."

"Well, I have one with a cross and anchor, if that'll do."

"It will have to, if it's all you have...Do you follow the traditions of the elders?"

"I don't brawl, and I go to church as often as possible."

"Hmmm." I pretended to deliberate, casting him unsure glances every few moments. "If everything you've said is true…then you are the most handsome _and _most honorable man I have ever met."

And so it continued. He taught me geography, brought out a map of the world and showed me each and every place that had been discovered as of yet. He told me about silk, a beautiful fabric that came from China, was embroidered in India, and got worn by Britain's most fashionable women. He assured me that it looked better when it was still in China and India. About spices and fragrances like cinnamon and sandalwood, and even brought some to show me. He had books with printed illustrations of desert sands, port towns, dense jungles. I pored over them each night, careful to hide them from the women I shared a longhouse with, and learned new words for our now daily conversations.

I, in turn, taught him how to tell which way north was _without_ his compass by observing which way the river is flowing, or where the moss grows on a tree. I told him how many moons had to pass before the deer, wolf and bear mothers gave birth to their young. I showed him the signs that the people of our land use to communicate even when we do not speak the same words. We canoed through the rapids together, and we jumped off the cliff and into the bay every time we got a chance. I even took him to meet Grandmother Willow, thrilled when he understood her without my having to teach him. No matter what we were doing, though, our hands seemed to meet, embracing each other like long lost family.

It was so perfect that I knew it couldn't last. I couldn't exactly ignore the way my breath would hitch whenever he did something with reckless abandon, smiling at me the entire time. Or how our endless conversations would sometimes be interrupted when one of us realized that the other was staring, or how little space was between us. I was lost once more, lost because I had somehow managed to come dangerously close to being in love-not only with someone who was not my betrothed, but an enemy. In the village, I heard more and more whisperings of an attack on the white men being planned. I hoped that my father's steady, contemplative nature would hold it off until they could leave, but I could not know for sure. And though I wanted so badly to keep him, I knew that peace would not come till I saw John and his people go.

"John. Why did your people come here? Why have you not gone away yet?"

When I saw on his face that he did not want to tell me for fear of hurting me, I knew that I would not like the answer.

"Mostly to establish a colony. Like I was telling you before you became furious with me," he laughed at the memory, and then sighed. "England has been interested in colonizing the Americas for a long time, ever since the Spaniards began to set up colonies in South America, Hispaniola, and Florida. But many of the men came here for gold." He paused, trying to gauge my reaction. What was there to react to? Was it something about gold?

"What's gold?"

He looked at me as if I had to be kidding, then frowned, and took something out of his pouch.

I gasped. I had never even seen metal until I met John clad in his steel armor, but this was more beautiful than that could ever be. It was a deep yellow, a yellow I had never even seen before in nature, and it sparkled in the light like the surface of a lake, or a dragonfly's wing. Somehow, even the bright blue turquoise and opalescent abalone shell of the beautiful necklace I wore now seemed…dull.

I knew that it must be valuable. Maybe it was what they traded with, much like my people traded with _wampum _belts. And then the terrible truth made my heart sink to my stomach. John's men had come to rape and plunder our village of whatever gold they could find, most likely killing all of us in the process. Greed could drive people to do terrible things.

"But there's nothing like that around here!" I cried, then relaxed. If he told them there was no gold, they would have no reason to attack us. They would leave, and all trouble would be avoided. Right?

"John, you will tell them that, won't you?" He sighed, but nodded. Did he think that they would not believe him? No, they had to. He had told me that many of his men trusted him with their lives. Would they trust him about their money?

Before he turned to go, I spoke once more. "John! If they leave…will…will you go with them?"

A faraway look came into his eyes. "I wouldn't have anywhere to call home. I've never really belonged anywhere."

Indecision tore at me before I uttered what might as well have been a confession of love. "You could belong here."

Minutes passed as he carefully thought out his response. Was this how he looked when he was preparing a battle plan? And why was it so easy for me to guess the patterns of his mind? Before I could ponder that, he came to a decision.

"Meet me tonight. Right here." He softly pressed his lips to my forehead, and was gone.


	4. Saving Fish from Drowning

As I slipped through the cornstalks, I wondered if my friend Nakoma would tell. She and I had been best friends since childhood, and my recent distance concerned her. I had no idea that she had already known about me sneaking off to meet John, but I did not mind as long as she kept it to _herself_. But I couldn't blame her. I was breaking every rule known to our people. What was there to be admired about that?

Though the night was quiet, I felt a sinister presence looming over the forest I knew so well. I tried humming my mother's lullaby to calm the feeling, but the magical comfort it brought me apparently did not work when it wasn't accompanied by that mystical wind. I did not want to admit it to myself, but I knew deep down that the white men probably didn't listen to what I had told John to tell them. I had seen the rest of them. Their cruel faces and the hard glint in their eyes, combined with their meager clothing, told me that they were poor and desperate. At the time, I had not known what for. But now that I knew about the gold, I knew that they would not take the word of a _savage _that they had sailed for months to a place that had none whatsoever, even if the message was relayed to them by their beloved captain. Well, that meant that I had a new reason for coming here tonight: to get John to talk to my father. Maybe we could somehow make peace, or at least prepare for a battle that would otherwise have been unexpected.

"Pocahontas." His haggard appearance made me jump. Blue circles had formed beneath his eyes, and there was a dark shadow of stubble on his cheeks.

"John!" Even though we were both obviously worried and tired, we ran toward each other as always.

"Listen. My men are planning to attack your people. You've got to warn them. I tried telling them, but…they wouldn't listen. It's like this gold fever has poisoned their minds. They wouldn't listen to any reason." He shook his head and clenched his fist, then unclenched it in helplessness and defeat. He usually seemed so in control of things, but this had obviously shaken him deeply. My feeling had been right.

"You have to come with me and talk to my father!"

"Pocahontas, talking isn't going to do any good!" He sounded exasperated. Why wouldn't he listen? I tried pulling him along anyway, but he would not budge. Too frightened for the safety of my people to get angry, I went straight to panic. But before either of us did anything rash, Grandmother Willow interceded.

"I have something to show you. _Look._" One of her branches extended down to the surface of the water, sending out a perfect circle of small waves.

"The ripples." Her meaning was beginning to make sense…

"So small at first, but look how they grow! But _someone _has to _start _them." She spoke pointedly towards John, and he became even more stubbornly opposed.

"I know them. They're _not _going to listen to us." In spite of myself, I wondered if he was right. He had been through things like this before—shouldn't he know what he was talking about? But Grandmother Willow was unmoved.

"Young man. Sometimes the right path is not always the easiest one. Only when the fighting stops can you be together." He looked at her with a shocked expression, as if she had said exactly what he had been thinking earlier. Then he turned to towards me, and his eyes seemed to weigh me in the balance.

"Alright. Let's go talk to your father."

We looked at each other, studying one another's faces as we had done so many times before. I was suddenly aware that my joyful embrace had brought us closer than we had ever been before. I smiled up at him. This was how we were supposed to be, and I wondered why he'd never—and I'd never—but those thoughts flew out of my mind as I felt John's intense gaze. I knew before I even looked up that there was no escape—I would be sucked into his eyes like I had been so many times. But unlike before, I did not try to resist. The only path I could see before me was the whirlpool that was steadily dragging me in. Before I knew it I was sinking, drowning in his touch, and hanging on to him for dear life.

I should have known, I should have _seen_. If only I had been listening, instead of just feeling! One moment John's arms were warm at my waist, the next they were pinned to the ground by Kocoum's clenched hands. _This is insane. I have to be dreaming! _But when I was thrown to the ground after trying to part them, my stomach threatening to empty itself on impact, I knew that whatever was happening was terribly real. Then I saw the small dagger, getting closer to John's throat every moment. Again my stomach lurched, again I threw my whole weight against Kocoum, a strength I never knew I had forcing him further…and further…until an explosion of sound made his body so, so light. Blood sprinkled the air.

Kocoum's eyes darted everywhere, frantically searching until they found mine and asked, _Why didn't you love me? _He was a drowning man reaching out to me, grabbing my necklace tightly. But before he could say anything, all breath left him and he fell backwards into the water, my necklace breaking in his hand. Horror spread over me like a poisonous vine, threatening to choke me.

_What had I done? _


	5. A Complementary Soul

His face was burned behind my eyelids even as I had clawed at the red-haired boy who had shot him. I heard that silent question pounding in my ears even when John was being dragged away by warriors who had heard the shot. And when I looked down at his face in the water, softer then than it had ever been in life, I could not answer. I could only whisper softly and hope his spirit understood. "You deserved better than a girl who could not love you. You had the strength of the bear. I'm so sorry."

_I'm so sorry_.

I was still whispering those words as I knelt at the edge of my village. How could I have done this? My mistake had already cost one person his life, would cost another his own, and might even manage to kill my entire village.

"Father, forgive me!" I had cried hysterically.

"You have shamed your father. Take him away!" he shouted, gesturing towards John. The warriors led him roughly to the prison hut, and when I saw his struggling futilely in their arms, I broke down.

Kocoum had loved me, more than I had even known. And I had scorned him, not by ignoring him or coldly rejecting him, but by going against everything he had stood for. And even when he died, his look did not blame me, only asked why? How? How could his last sight be of me kissing a _shaganash, _as we had come to call these pale people, when he had loved me with all that he had?

And John. I had condemned him to death, too, even though he deserved nothing. He took the blame so that the younger one would go away free, without having to face the consequences of his action. It seemed that I had the power to harm everyone close to me, whether I loved them or not.

Thomas—that was the name of the boy—would most certainly go and tell his fellows that John had been captured. That meant that both sides were preparing for war. I realized that not only might my own people die, but some of John's as well. Why were the spirits torturing me? I must have gone wrong, stopped listening to them at some point, and now they were punishing me for rejecting the gift of understanding. I tore at my hair and held myself tighter, tighter, hoping I could squeeze myself into nonexistence.

Then Nakoma appeared. She must have been watching me, because she didn't look surprised at my tear-stained face. Oh, she had always been such a good friend to me, and yet I had thrown her advice to the wind, thinking that I knew more about the world than she. She took my hand.

"Pocahontas…I sent Kocoum after you." _What? _"I was worried…I thought I was doing the right thing."

I wanted to be angry at her, but that would simply be casting the blame where it did not belong. Even if she hadn't sent for Kocoum, he might have gotten some inkling that I was in danger, and come searching to find me. It seemed that things were destined to end this way. I assured her that it was not fault.

"Nakoma, all of this was because of me._ I_ destroyed two people's lives, not you."

She tipped my head up, searching my face, and led me to John's tent.

When I lifted the flap, I was almost afraid to go over to him. I knew some of the things done to prisoners of war. Warriors might cut off pieces of the doomed person's skin, and then eat it in front of them. It might not have been as bad as some of the things I had heard John speak of in regards to English prisoners, but any harm was too much for one who did not deserve it.

In the soft glow of moonlight that was streaming through the smoke hole, I could see that he was hunched over from pain and exhaustion. Kneeling softly in front of him, I tipped his head up until it was at eye level with mine.

Tears began to fill my eyes. He looked older, and a hopeless calm that pierced my heart even more than desperation would have had settled over his face. At least they had decided to leave him whole. But when he recognized me, he glowed with relief. I could only cling to him, trying to make him forgive me for what I had done to him, and whispering my own prayer to my mother that she watch over him and Kocoum when they joined her in heaven.

"Don't worry, I've gotten out of worse scrapes than this. Can't think of any right now, but…" He was trying to joke with me about it, but how could I laugh? It was my fault!

"If it weren't for me, none of this would have happened. You know that."

"Pocahontas, look at me. I'd rather die tomorrow than live a hundred years without knowing you." I was speechless. How could he possibly—but he was speaking once more.

"Pocahontas, when I met you I was empty. Even though I had seen so much and known so much, I was always after more. That's why I travelled, to fill up the emptiness I couldn't seem to get rid of." He leaned over to touch his nose to mine. "I never had a true friend before I met you, much less a true lover, which is why you're worth more than anything I could have found in ten lifetimes without you. So yes. I'd rather die happy tomorrow than live one hundred miserable years without you."

I couldn't believe it. I had found what I was looking for from the beginning—a complementary soul. I felt now like my father told me he felt when he met my mother—here was someone I could grow old with, while we filled each other's life-cups with joys and sorrows. But—no. _No. _There would be no life! He was going to die tomorrow! I cursed myself silently for giving up everything that might have been good in my life.

"But John, you should be scorning me. I took even that away from you. I don't know how, but I did." It struck me that I didn't even realize how I had caused this mess. Maybe it was so many things that they were impossible to count.

"No, I should be thanking you. You know how arrogant I was when we first met. I don't know how anyone stood to be around me." I couldn't help but laugh at that, remembering that I had wished (momentarily, of course) that a wild animal would attack him, or something equally horrible and unlikely.

"But…what will I do without you?" It sounded so weak, more vulnerable than I had ever let myself be around him, and I thought I knew what his answer would be anyway. You'll move on, being the wise woman you've always been. He had always called me a woman, even though I had only ever thought of myself as a girl.

"I'll always be with you. Forever."

And before I could even process this in my mind, Nakoma was leading me out, but not before I felt him softly kiss my palm. He had promised that his spirit would always dwell with me, even after he died. Could he even do that? I didn't know, and no soft breeze was there to tell me. There could only be one reason why.

I had followed the wrong path.


	6. The Voice of the Great Spirit

"I was wrong, Grandmother Willow, I followed the wrong path. I feel so lost."

I had gathered up all of the books and little trinkets that John had given to me and brought them here, to Grandmother Willow, to bury. After they killed him, his body would probably be cast into the sea, or left out in the elements. The least I could do for him would be to give him a sacred burial spot for his possessions.

I wanted to cry out for my mother, to the Great Spirit, to anyone who could help me. How had I gone so wrong? She would be so disappointed in me. She had tried so hard while she was alive to teach me how to know what path to take, and I had never been able to listen.

"Child, remember your dream!"

"My dream?" I said it more to myself than out loud. The spinning arrow. Hadn't I once compared John to an arrow? But that was all in my mind.

Then the compass rolled out onto the ground in front of me.

John had told me that these were used to find directions when you were lost, but I had not really looked at it closely, because I already knew what signs to look for to guide my path. Well, I thought I knew. I picked it up, its copper setting shining almost as brightly as the gold he had shown me. But—did the arrow move? Was it broken? I turned it again, reading all the symbols while doing so, and noticed that the arrow was always turning the opposite way, so when I stopped, it always faced north. But it wasn't just jerking. It was spinning.

_A spinning arrow. _

"It's the arrow from your dream!" said Grandmother Willow, just as I realized it myself. All at once, my mother's lullaby rose around me, higher and more resonant than before. And I felt her, smelled her, heard her voice as clearly as the last day I had spoken to her.

_You know your path. _I faced the horizon, the tiniest glow of orange just beginning to peek out. I _did _know my path. _Now follow it._

As I ran, my mind jumped between two thoughts: that my mother was with me, and that there had to be hope, there had to be time. However, when I heard two drumbeats—not just the familiar low, deep sound that I heard all my life, but a high, fast, tinny tune that I could assume was the English war drum—I knew I had to go faster even than my legs could carry me now. Once John Smith was dead, a massacre would begin. I had to ask for help. I closed my eyes and silently asked my mother how to enlist the help of the spirits. No sooner had I thought this than images began to rush through my mind once more, like they had so long ago. They were foggy, but soon two became clear, just as before: A soaring eagle, and a mountain.

I formed the words in my own spontaneous melody.

_Eagle, help my feet to fly._

_Mountain, help my heart be great._

Not sure if this was enough, I called on the help of even the beings that had no names.

_Spirits of the earth and sky,_

_Please don't let it be too late…_

I was flying, leaping over chasms, soaring though meadows, my toes barely touching the ground. And all the while, my mother's breath tickled my back, her hands pushing me the whole way. The glow of the sun had turned the entire sky red, and suddenly, I saw a cliff silhouetted against the sky with people of my tribe and others who had come to help us in battle. And one moment later, there was John, being dragged towards the place of his execution.

Everything happened so quickly, it was like a gust of wind had sped me forward through time to the edge of the cliff. The club was falling, falling, and as I threw myself over John's body, screaming, "NO!" I could barely tell if I was dead or alive. But I could still feel him beneath me. Stillness settled over everything; even the wind stopped.

"Daughter, STAND BACK." My father looked at me as though I was possessed. I would not give up that easily.

"I won't stand back! If you kill him, you'll have to kill me too. _I love him, _Father." Shock was apparent in the faces of every single person on the cliff, and even the white men in the clearing below. Had they heard me? Even if they had, how could they understand me? But it didn't matter; it was my father I had to convince.

"Father, he has done nothing wrong. This is where hatred has brought us, to killing an innocent man." Leaning down to place my cheek next to John's, I felt tears on his eyelashes.

"This is the path I choose, father. What will yours be?"

My father had once told me that he could feel my mother's presence whenever the wind blew through the trees. Now that I could feel her too, I knew that she was whispering in his ear, just as she had whispered in mine just moments earlier. I knew he was remembering the time when they had first met, and maybe she was even showing him a time when _they _had broken tradition to be together. Leaves whirled around his feet and over his head. Finally, he raised his club again. But now it was in peace.

"My daughter speaks with a wisdom beyond her years. We have all come here armed with our weapons and the anger in our hearts, but she has come with courage and understanding. Her voice echoes that of the Great Spirit, and His will is mine. If there is to be more killing, it will not start with me. Release him."

John was unsteady on his feet, and his whole body trembled like a leaf before he pulled me to him, stroking my hair and murmuring "Thank God. Thank God. Thank God." I was so engulfed by joy and relief that I didn't pay any attention to the commotion I heard far below. But when John's head jerked sideways, I knew that something was wrong.

Then he tore himself from me, and a loud _CRACK _split the sky. Time slowed down as I saw his body fly backwards through the air and hit the ground at my father's feet.


	7. Greater than a Chief

Kekata assured me that he had a strong spirit, that he could pull though.

Strong smells filled the longhouse as Kekata puffed tobacco smoke from his long medicine pipe. I was allowed inside only because it had been decided that finally, my mother's gift had been passed down to me, and because I knew John better than anyone else. I had helped Kekata gather herbs from the forest, perform the rituals my mother taught me that made them holy and healing, and burn them in small bowls placed at strategic points around the lodge to purify the air and drive out evil spirits. While Kekata pounded the drums, I had recited sacred chants. Whatever was needed, I was more than happy to do. And at night, when he screamed and writhed and moaned from the pain and the fever dreams, I was there to wipe the sweat from his forehead, add another rabbit fur blanket, and pour cool spring water to his lips. His mouth was so dry. His eyes were so red.

And he never recognized me.

So as I sat beside him once more, I held his hand in mine and gently massaged his fingers. Kekata and I had been able to prevent blood poisoning and other immediate dangers, but the bullet that hit him had shattered his pelvis, and we were unable to properly extract the bone fragments with our instruments. His wound had slightly healed over, but he needed more surgery, and medicines that we couldn't give him. It was clear that if he was going to have a full recovery and regain his full ability to walk, he needed to go back across the sea, to London. And I knew that he might never be able to come back.

"Pocahontas. Pocahontas." Was he finally awake? No, still dreaming, but a calm dream, a blissful one, not one of the nightmares that had plagued his sleep every night for the past two weeks. For the first time in as long, a small smile appeared on his lips.

"…brought you a horse. Teach you to…ride." Was he seeing the same image I was—side by side, racing over meadows on the backs of those magnificent animals he had told me he loved?

"Tell me again about—Sly Fox…and…the little boy." And he had been as a little boy, eagerly listening to the fables that had fascinated me ever since I was young. Their simplicity held such truth. Did he realize that as well?

"Pocahontas!" He jerked up, then twisted in pain. In one motion, I was standing over him and pressing his shoulders back down. He looked up at me like a lost child, separated from his home or his best friend. "Wasn't I just talking to you?" His voice came from far away, and his eyes were pulled back from the depths of his consciousness as he tried to focus.

"No…you were asleep. Dreaming. I heard you talking." He looked embarrassed, then panic flooded his face as he looked down at his bandages and up at the sadness that was still in my eyes.

"Oh God, Pocahontas, your father! Is he—I tried to jump in front of him, but—"

Once more I pressed his shoulders back, but he was reluctant to close his eyes and just listen.

"My father is fine. He—and I—think you are one of the bravest men to cross our path. He says that a man who lays down his life for another is worthy of more respect even than a chief." Even now I was shocked at the enormity of the statement. I remembered when he had spoken it to me.

"_Daughter, I am sorry for doubting you. A man who would risk his life to save another is held higher than any man, even the chief. You may tell him that, if he so wishes, he may become a part of our people_." And we hugged, like we had not done in so long, his embrace letting me know that I had finally made a choice that truly brought him pride.

A thoughtful look came into John's eyes, the look that I had seen so many times, the one that meant he was working out a new idea that might change everything.

"Does he respect me enough to make me his son-in-law?"

Once again, I was losing myself in his blue, blue eyes, hope reflected in them so plainly, as I am sure joy was reflected in mine. Then I remembered the unavoidable truth, and my joy faded, slowly, into sorrow. Now the hope was unbearable to look at, and I averted my gaze. He mistook it for uncertainty—he had always seemed so incredulous that I could feel fully the same about him as he did about me.

"Pocahontas, I know we haven't known each other for very long. And I know that I am very ignorant in the ways of your people, certainly unworthy of the chief's daughter. But I've finally found a place I could call home, and you—"

I could listen no longer. "John, your men are coming to take you."

"Take me where? To Jamestown?" He still did not see what this had to do with his proposal.

"To England. You must have an English doctor. Kekata and I have tried, but…" _Pocahontas, you have to go on._

"If you stay here, you may not live. This weapon that you have brought with you—the gun—we are not familiar with its workings, nor what evil power it holds. Even if you did not die, you might be crippled for the rest of your life. So you must go. I know you could not live without being able to explore, having to use a cane to get around…"

His fists clenched, face tightened into a grimace, and his teeth gnashed together. His whole body shook once, twice, five times. But it was his sudden, gasping intake of breath that told me he was silently sobbing.

"No, no, no! John!" I flung my arms around his shoulders, but he turned his face away from me. Minutes passed, and I still remember that he smelled like cinnamon—I had given some to Kekata to use in each ritual bath. His body continued to shake, and I wished that there was a salve I could rub or a tea I could brew that would take away _this _kind of pain. It may have been hours, it may have been minutes, but it seemed like we had always been lying like this and _would _always be lying like this, till finally he lie still.

"When are they coming?" All traces of hope were now gone from his face, and for the first time he looked as lost as I had been when my mother died.

"Three days from now. Any later, and there will be too many storms, and sailing would be dangerous."

Silence. Both of our minds wandered, and I was thinking of what I could give him to make his journey somewhat easier, some gift to remember me by, when he pulled me towards him and desperately caught my lips with his.

Our first kiss in the glade had been soft and cool, like swimming in an icy pond on a hot day. But now he was holding me so tightly, I could barely move. I could only feel the dryness of his tongue, the tug of his fingers as they glided through my hair, the hardness of his shirt buttons digging into my skin. Soon he was trailing kisses down my jawline and neck, rubbing my shoulders in smooth circles until he gasped, and I saw him grasp his side. Gently, I reached around and lifted his other hand from my back.

"John, we can't have you tearing your stitches over this." Despite his pain, he grinned. "You need to sleep. Sleep is when the body heals itself. I'll be here in the morning. Besides, such kisses are improper between…between…" The words stuck in my throat.

"Between unmarried people. I know, and I'm so sorry. I never should have held you like that, I probably even hurt you." He paused. "I haven't taken away your queenly honor, have I? Forgive me, Your Highness, I just couldn't resist you."

When we both laughed out loud at that, I knew that somehow, sometime in the future, he'd once again be the John Smith I'd first met, arms open to take in the world.

"Pocahontas, will you be there when the ship sails?" As if he had to ask!

"Of course I will!" I said, a little over-emphatically and somewhat…reprovingly. "Oh, I didn't mean it that way—"

"No, I should have learned by now not to cross your temper." Somehow, he understood me better than anyone in my village, despite them all having known me for my entire life. I probably wouldn't ever meet anyone like him again, not that I'd want to.

"What I meant to say was…I have a gift for you. For you and all of your men." I expected him to try to get me to tell what it was, but his eyes were heavy lidded with sleep, and he merely nodded. Softly I began to sing the lullaby with the words I had used when we first met, and I wished that the night would never end.

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><p><strong>AN: The movie set-up "He has to go back to England or he'll die" was always rather annoying to me-Native American medicine was certainly much more advanced at that point. Remember, surgeons in Europe hadn't even begun to really sterilize their instruments until the late 1800's I believe. Definitely not 1607. But since it is the main plot point of the end of the story, I tried to focus more on his ability to walk. Anyway, if you've been reading, please review!**


	8. Message Borne on the Wind

I had said I would be there, and I was.

The hills and forests that I had known all my life were now filled with ghosts of memories. The chirping of the birds became John's and my animated conversations, my voice often overlapping with his. Otters splashing became the splash of my canoe paddle hitting the water on that day when I first saw the strange clouds. And the _flick_ of deer hooves racing through the forest became something I had not thought of in so long—Kocoum chasing Nakoma and I through the forest, when we were all still young and uncaring of what role we would have to play. _If only he had stayed that way…he might still be here._ I shook my head, and all the phantoms disappeared. Thoughts like that would get me nowhere.

Soon a wet, salty breeze hit my face, and I knew we had reached the shore. Behind me were my people, men and women, baskets filled to overflowing with corn, beans, squash, and dried meats. Ahead lay the huge ship, the _Susan Constant,_ as big as fifty canoes. I still could hardly imagine a place where things of this scale were produced, despite seeing pictures of London in books. Looking at it made me feel so small, so disconnected from the earth. But then my eyes fell downwards, and I saw John lying on a stretcher, surrounded by a group of haggard-looking men. Most of them looked hungry, and I was glad for the gift I had brought them. When they saw me approaching, the settlers assumed respectful poses, some bowing, all of them removing their hats. I wondered if John had told them that my father was a chief. Hadn't I explained to him that this did not make me eligible for leading the tribe?

Then it dawned on me: They were honoring me for saving their captain's life.

A soft, deep voice came up behind me. It was Thomas, the boy who—who had killed Kocoum. He glanced up at me quickly, then lowered his eyes as if he were ashamed to look at me. "He'll die if he stays here," he whispered. His words seemed to try to convince me, as if he knew how difficult it would be for me to let him go. He was a stranger, as young as I was, and he had killed someone I obviously cared a lot about. Yet he was comforting me. The thought was almost incomprehensible. In a gesture I never thought I'd make, I placed my hand on his shoulder. His mouth hung open as he quickly raised his head, shocked at the unspoken words my gesture had conveyed: _I forgive you. _I smiled, and he gave me a tentative smile back. _Perhaps if I had known him longer, _I wondered, _we might have become friends…_But that was not what I had come here for.

I knelt down beside John. A light spread across his face, making it glow golden in the early morning light. He looked so happy, relieved, content that I had to smile at seeing him. I handed him a small bag filled with a salve I had made from Grandmother Willow's bark, which she had gladly given me, hinting at its special healing abilities. At the bottom of the bag was an ivory pendant in the shape of an eagle—I knew he would be happily surprised when he found it.

"Here, it's from Grandmother Willow's bark. It's for the pain."

"What pain? I've had worse pain than this!" He winced. "Can't think of anything right now, but…" I would really miss his lighthearted nature.

My father soon joined me, tucking his sacred mantle around John's shoulders. It reminded me of how he once tucked me in at night, and I knew that he had come to love this man.

"You are always welcome among our people." Then lower, more gently: "Thank you, my brother." I had taught John enough of my language that he caught the gist of what he was saying, and he gazed at my father with a deep gratefulness, more than I had ever seen in anyone. Maybe they might have been friends, too.

"Pocahontas, I have something for you." I was astonished. In between the time he had found out he was leaving and now, how could he have possibly found a gift for me? He reached into his pocket and pulled out-

"My mother's necklace!" It sparkled, looking newer than it had when I had first worn it. Every single stone was in its proper place, the smooth piece of mother-of-pearl hanging perfectly in the center. "John—how did you?" I didn't finish, so great was my disbelief. I could only raise my eyebrows in wonder.

"I saw it break when we were in the glade, and picked up the pieces as fast as I could. I was going to try to give them to you before…before you missed it, but I never got the chance. And when I was sick, I forgot about it. So when my men came to get me ready for the ship, I asked them to help me put it back together." He smiled sheepishly. "I can't believe I memorized where all the pieces went…"

I placed the necklace gently on my collarbones. I had so missed its coolness, being able to rub the stones when I was deep in thought. My face probably glowed, too. We smiled at one another, but soon both of our countenances fell as it dawned on us that we were truly about to part, possibly forever. His hand gently caressed my face.

"Come with me?" His chest was heaving with the desperate hope that I'd say yes. Somehow, I had known he would ask me this. And I had thought about it, thought about it deeply. But no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I prayed, I could not come up with an answer.

My father smiled knowingly down at me. "You must choose your own path."

I glanced back at the two groups of people behind me. On one side stood my people, the Powhatan tribe, those who I had known and, whether or not they had felt the same about me, loved. On the other side were the settlers, many of whom were staying here, at the fort they had built. They looked uncertain, probably still somewhat frightened based upon deeply ingrained notions. But they seemed to look to me for direction.

They had always said I had my mother's spirit, and now that I knew she walked with me and allowed me to understand the voices of the spirits, I could believe it. But it was beginning to dawn on me that she had prepared me for more than that—I was the sole thing that held the tenuous bond of peace between these two people. I had thought that John Smith was my sole path, and my destination, but he was only one of the steps towards what the Great Spirit had truly intended me for: a mediator between two worlds. I had thought that my prayers were not being answered, but it was merely because I already knew. Slowly, sadly, I turned back to face John and hugged him tightly, and he embraced me in return. The only man I had ever loved, and the only one I ever would. He had brought me here, but I knew that going with him would be throwing away all I had come to learn. Tears welled up in my eyes, and he read my response without my saying a word. But he was resolute.

"Then, I'll stay with you." Calmly but firmly, he met my gaze. What was he_ thinking_?

"No! You _have _to go back!" Didn't he realize that the only way there was even a hope of our being together again was for him to leave?

"But I can't leave you." He looked so earnest, as if he believed it was physically impossible for him to go away from me. But I remembered the words he had spoken to me when _I _had wondered what I would do without him.

"You never will." My voice began to crack, and the rest came out in a whisper. "I'll always be with you. Forever."

He accepted my words as an echo of his own, and as if we shared the same mind, our bodies moved toward each other. Our mouths met tenderly, as if we were saying with our lips all the kind words that would never be spoken. He was holding my arms with a touch so light, I could barely feel them there, as if he was afraid I would shatter, and when we separated, I felt his sigh on my cheek. Thomas placed a hand on my shoulder and said shakily, "It's time to go, John." We grasped each other's hand until we could reach no further, until his fingers slipped through mine. As they lifted him into the rowboat, his head was still lifted and his eyes were still trained on me until he reached the ship. The calls of the sailors as they lifted the sails were strangely musical, in an accent that John had told me was called Gaelic. The white canvas billowed against the pink sky beautifully. My mind worked quickly as my father placed his hand on my shoulder. _There might still be time._

And I was running, flying, brilliant leaves circling around me, my heartbeat sounding through my chest. There—it was still in view as I reached the edge of the cliff. _Mother, be with him. Send him back to me. _A strong breeze blew towards the ship, sending my hair flying forward. And a message was borne to me on the winds of my thoughts—an image of John making the sign for good-bye. I smiled and returned it slowly, knowing he could see me silhouetted against the sky. And I smiled, for I had heard another whisper tickle my ear:

_He will be back._

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><p><strong>AN:** **If you have not seen the original storyboard for the finale, I highly recommend it-go look it up on YouTube! I used that version for this scene because, if it's even possible, it's more moving than the movie version. No, that was not a pun. **


	9. Epilogue

**A/N: Before you read this, if you are the kind of person who thinks that Disney screwed up history with this movie, stop here. Seriously, you might faint, or try to murder me. However, if you're interested in history and willing to suspend disbelief, I think you'll enjoy this chapter the most. And if you're just a Pocahontas fan who wishes they could have had a happy ending, I think you might enjoy it even more. I happen to fall into both camps :D  
><strong>

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><p>Pocahontas sat beneath the shelter of her favorite willow tree, playing with the branches as they blew past and touched the water. This was always the place that she came to think; she told her people that her spirit guide lived here, and she swore that this was the best place for her to listen and gain the most understanding. They wouldn't have cared what she said, though—they loved her almost as much as they loved Chief Powhatan, the wise leader of the Algonquian tribes of coastal Virginia. She had proven herself to be the wisest medicine woman they had ever had—even the oldest could not remember one with such great insight, courage, and humility. But this did not even begin to describe the scope of her abilities—she had proven a vital intercessor with the white settlers. Several skirmishes had broken out over the years, and even one serious large-scale battle had occurred, but Pocahontas' dignity and grace always seemed to calm both sides as she diplomatically helped to resolve issues. The original settlers practically worshipped her, and the newer ones—for there had been many, many more, and most of them of aristocratic background—stood somewhat in awe of her knowledge of their own culture and her capable manner.<p>

There had even been a proposal, from a man named John Rolfe. He had come from a long stay in the Bahamas to plant tobacco, which grew well in the marshy Jamestown soil, and had marveled at her beauty at first, then her strength of spirit. And she had very nearly accepted—he was kind, generous and considerate of her people, and would make relations between the English and Native Americans even stronger. And, in her deepest heart, she had for years felt an ache for little hands to hold and a little forehead to kiss. But in her dreams, that little face always had blue eyes, and it reminded her that, though they shared the same name, John Rolfe would never be John Smith. She knew it was not fair, and she felt very guilty because she knew that Rolfe's former family had died, and he desperately needed someone to fill the void. But, just as she had said to Kocoum's spirit years before, she told him the only thing she could in honesty: "You deserve better than a woman who cannot love you." With that, she had walked away, ending up here.

Seven years had not changed her much. She was still as youthful and athletic, she still loved to run in the forest and canoe the rivers. But now, she generally did so with a purpose. Even though she was still relatively young, her eyes always shone with a deep wisdom and understanding. Her childlike nature was still there, but it was tempered with much more maturity than she had once had, and she now knew how to laugh more deeply because she had known more sorrows. But as she looked at her reflection in the pond, she still saw the somewhat flippant teenaged girl that was always searching for her path, just as she was now.

Would John ever come back? No, she knew he would, her mother had _assured _her of that. But the spirits always worked in mysterious ways. What if he came back utterly changed, and she no longer saw the man who stood as an eagle about to take flight? What if he came many years later, too late for them to start a family, when they both only had a few years left in their bodies to spend with each other? What if she had been wrong, and he came back bound to a cane? She knew she would still love him, but he would be distraught at not being able to do the things he once could. It would ruin him. If only she knew what had happened to him...she had received one letter, sent soon after his arrival in England, but no more. She kept that one letter tucked inside her dress, close to her heart. It was now terribly faded, but she had memorized the words long ago, and said them to herself now for the short comfort they would bring.

_Pocahontas,_

_I hope this letter finds you well and safe. This was the first time I was able to find a ship headed to Jamestown that would carry letters. I am still in the hospital, a godforsaken place if there ever was one. It's somewhat better than the field doctors on the battlefield, if you could even call them doctors. More like butchers, really. But it doesn't compare to that cool, clean, fragrant longhouse where you and Kekata took care of me. Did I ever mention how wonderful your people's names are to write? Much better than James or Sarah or any number of other uncreative English names._

_I hope to write again soon after I'm fully well. I always thought that London was one of the best places in the world, but now I find myself missing the clean air and solitude of your land. And there aren't any talking trees here to keep me company._

_Much love,_

_John_

Her eyes stung. She could almost hear his voice saying the words, his typical humor understating the depth of his pain and loneliness.

"You know, I've really missed this tree. After meeting her, all the other ones were rather a disappointment, even though they couldn't help it."

Pocahontas started. She hadn't thought she was going _crazy _with longing, but maybe she was. And when she turned around, she was almost sure of it.

For there, leaning comfortably against the willow's majestic trunk, stood a blue eyed explorer, with long blond hair that ruffled slightly in the breeze. He looked much different than the typical Englishman one would expect to see in this area. He was clean shaven, his shirt trimmed with some sort of exotic embroidered fabric. Around his shoulders lay a mantle of animal hide, fluffy tails hanging off either side. And around his neck lay an ivory pendant in the shape of a fierce eagle, next to the prerequisite cross. A casual observer might wonder what kind of man would dare hang a heathen symbol next to the cross, but if you knew John Smith for any length of time, you knew that _he _was exactly that kind.

Pocahontas still couldn't decide if he was real, if maybe her imagination had taken her far beyond reality and completely re-imagined John, even making him somewhat older. Even though she had just been longing for him, it seemed impossible to her that her wish might come true.

"Pocahontas, it's me, John. Don't you—remember me?" He still looked confident, but he faltered slightly, and doubt began to rise in his chest. _It's only been seven years…am I really so changed?_

She slowly made her way towards him, stepping gently and stopping every second to stare at him. She reminded him of a deer as she moved, just like when he had first met her, chasing her through the forest. At least now she was coming _towards _him, but her expression was still as frightened. Finally she stood immediately before him, and her gaze was just as compelling as it had always been, as if she was staring straight into his soul. She reached out and hesitantly touched his cheek, then let her fingers wander over his eyes and nose, and finally his mouth. He couldn't help but sigh as she cautiously explored his face. He didn't know how he'd gotten along for so many years without feeling her touch, so light and gentle. He knew that it was not just for him, but an extension of her personality. She hadn't a callous bone in her body. And when her fingers lingered on his lips, he gently kissed them, then brought her hand back down. Even though she was still looking at him in confusion, she was now blushing, a dark red spreading across her cheekbones—so much more beautiful than any of the English women that had vied for his attention. He wondered how he had ever thought otherwise.

The wind picked up, and Pocahontas closed her eyes, listening to the familiar melody. Even though it was not fall, brilliant red leaves began to swirl around their feet. Once again, images were clouding her mind, and just as John Smith was comparing her again to the numbers of women that he had met, a clear picture formed of the afternoon that he had likened her to Nefertiti. That had only happened once before, this seeming exchange of thoughts—when his ship had sailed. Suddenly, fiercely, she embraced him, nearly knocking him over with her force. He laughed, hugging her back and swinging her around.

"John!"

"You didn't believe me in the first place?" She began laughing ecstatically.

"I thought you were a dream, or that I was going crazy! It really wouldn't have been a surprise, given how much I think about you." She would never know the effect those words had on him.

"I'm so, so sorry I wasn't able to write. I'm surprised you haven't gotten married and had a little one yet, I had no right to expect…wait. You are…" he trailed off, and his expression was closer to panic than any man that knew him had ever seen.

"John, I couldn't—I couldn't marry anyone else. I was asked, but I refused. I guess I'm stubborn." Then she caught on to what he had been saying at first. "But…why didn't you write?" She looked merely curious, but he knew her well enough to know that there was hurt there as well. Well, she was completely right in feeling that way, and he sincerely hoped his explanation did not come across as an excuse.

"As soon as I got out of the hospital, I signed up for another tour with the British Army so that I could pay for my passage to Virginia. We were sent to Grenada and the East Indies for colonization—" He broke off. "It was horrible. I can't believe I used to be able to do that. I fought well, but I didn't kill anyone. Whenever I was going to, I thought of that young man who died so long ago. It wasn't worth it, and I thank God it wasn't necessary." His eyes closed, and he was rubbing his temples slowly, trying to get rid of a mental image. "I soon had the money, but I couldn't find a single ship that was headed to America. Even if there had been, I doubt they'd have let me go, the fighting was so intense." He closed his eyes once more, and Pocahontas wondered what he must have seen that made him react so strongly. "I did, however, write the letters…I was thinking that maybe, if I died, I might put it in my will that these be sent to you. But I got to give them to you instead." He smiled, and pulled out a thick packet of sealed envelopes. "I guess I should have thrown them away, but it's strange, reading my own letters and thinking of what you might say back was almost as good as hearing from you. Well, it was then, now it can't even begin to compare."

She lifted the letters reverently, inhaling the scent of the ink and wax. There were so many to read…but she had time. Looking back up at him, she realized that it now seemed she had all the time in the world.

"My question still stands, by the way."

"What question?" Had she not heard something he said? She thought she'd been hanging on his every word!

"Does your father respect me enough to make me his son-in-law?" He knew better than to ask her if she wanted him as a husband.

Like she had so many times before, she pretended to regard him with some doubt. And he, like so many times before, pretended to be nervous under her "intimidating" gaze. But he really was unprepared when she pulled him toward her and kissed him passionately, her fingers tugging through his hair sharply. She trailed kisses down his throat, smiling at each one, and massaged his shoulders gently. Even though he was barely suppressing a groan, he was _also _barely suppressing a laugh. He reluctantly pulled her away, his shoulders shaking. Passion and hilarity—it was a really strange combination.

"I thought those kinds of kisses were improper for unmarried people!"

"Well maybe we should ask my father now, so we can fix that." Her eyes still danced, but she was serious as she took his hand and ran with him towards the village. And once again, they were flying.

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><p><strong>AN: I know, two in one chapter, yikes! But I just wanted to thank all the people who have faithfully reviewed my story**. **I didn't expect to get as many as I have! It has really prompted me to start writing more. And to those who have been just reading, thanks as well. I love knowing that my work isn't just sitting there, in a corner, unread. I am getting started on a sequel-prequel of this story-the journals of john smith! I've read some of the excerpts of his actual ones, and he seems like such an awesome guy...he's really speaking to me. If you think you'd like to read something like that, please review!**


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